The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers (39 page)

“What do you need?” Mario asked pulling a pump action shot gun from one of the racks.

“That’ll do for starters,” Smith said and moved toward the locker to stock up on weapons. He took a semi- automatic SIG pistol and numerous rounds of ammunition along with the shotgun. Eazy helped himself to a Springfield .45 ACP and a shotgun. Batfish took a small Glock 26 hand gun, although she had no idea how to use it.

“One more thing, guys,” Smith said. “Can you cause us a diversion so we can sneak out back and get away?”

“Sure thing,” Larry said. He moved towards Smith and gave him another hug. “You stay lucky, kid.” He shook hands with Eazy and Batfish.

Mario followed suit by hugging Smith and shaking hands with Eazy and Batfish.

“You let them out, Mario and I’ll make some noise from up here,” Larry said. He moved to the window looking out over Bowery and slid it open. Larry leaned out the window and looked down three floors onto the street. “Hey, you ugly fucks down there, I’m right here you pieces of shit,” he yelled. He ducked back into the room and took a silver tray off his desk. He leaned out the window again and banged the tray on the outside brown, brick wall, continuing to hurl abuse at the zombies below. Clusters of undead surrounded the sidewalk underneath the window, staring up and reaching their hands skyward. Some scraped their nails on the brick, trying hopelessly to climb the building.

“I hope they can’t get in,” Eazy murmured.

“Nah, the laundry is solidly closed with anti-burglary shutters,” Mario said. “There’s no way they can get in. We managed to keep the cops out of this place for long enough so it should hold out a bunch of stupid dead guys,” he gave Eazy a wink. “Okay, let’s go.”

Smith and Eazy cocked their guns and followed Mario to the office door. Batfish followed behind.

“So long, Larry,” Smith called. Larry briefly turned and gave a wave before returning to shout abuse at the zombies.

Mario unbolted the steel door leading to the alley and opened it slightly enough to peek outside. He shut the door again and leaned his back against it.

“There’s not many out there, a half-dozen at most. You’ll be able to slip into the car and get out the alley if you’re real quick,” he said.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Smith whispered.

Mario held the door wide open and let Smith, Eazy and Batfish out into the alley. They moved swiftly to the police cruiser and took the same seating arrangement as before. Smith flung his duffel bag on the backseat next to Eazy and gunned the engine. Mario gave a wave before disappearing inside the building and slamming the steel door shut. Smith placed the shot gun by his right leg and the SIG pistol on the center console. He twisted in his seat to look out the back window and banged the transmission into reverse. He stomped on the gas pedal, the engine whined and the tires screeched as the police cruiser reeled backward through the alley gathering speed.

The zombies left lurking in the alley turned to watch the approaching vehicle. Smith didn’t bother to try and avoid them or slow down. The high back end of the cruiser smashed into the staggering undead, scuttling some into the high alley walls in a heap of crushed bones. The car jolted as two zombies were sucked underneath and crunched beneath the wheels.

Smith turned the wheel at the end of the alley and spun the vehicle in a tight turn so they faced south, the way they had come into Bowery. He put the transmission into drive and sped away from the huge crowd of zombies gathered on the street outside the Chinese laundry.

“Now we go to Battery Park Pier,” he mumbled.

Chapter Sixty-One

White roller blinds covered the veterinary surgery windows, masking us from the outside world. Rosenberg and I heard the zombie’s moans and the sound of them clumping on the sidewalk outside. I checked the front door to the surgery was locked. The door was secured by a turning latch knob, easily opened from the inside but virtually impossible to break open from the outside. Shadows elongated across the room as the sun began to dip, although I had no idea what the time was. I guessed it was early evening, around six or seven o’clock.

Rosenberg rifled through the wall closets and put some medical supplies into his bag. I looked in some lower lockers and found a big sack of dry dog biscuits. I bit into one and didn’t think it tasted too bad so I ate a handful. Rosenberg gave me a look of disgust.

“At least feed the animals, Brett,” he muttered.

I scooped up handfuls of the biscuits and scattered them amongst the cages, making sure every animal had some. Maybe some of them would be eating for the last time. I took a shine to a big, brown dopey looking dog looking at me with sad eyes. I decided to rename him “Sherman” as he was built like a tank.

“We better make tracks, Brett,” Rosenberg said. “I don’t want to be running around out there when the sun goes down.”

“Okay, but let’s get some weapons first,” I said looking around the surgery. “What could we use in here that’ll deter around ten thousand zombies?”

Rosenberg sighed. “We don’t have any guns and they wouldn’t keep a bunch of grenades in a vet surgery, Brett.”

My mind started whirring into gear. “Isn’t there anything we can mix together to make some sort of explosion or at least something flammable?”

Rosenberg thought for a moment. “We don’t want to cause any toxic fumes because in case you hadn’t noticed, those creatures don’t use their respiratory system like the living do. As we know, we can only eradicate them by destroying the few working brain cells in the frontal lobe. This virus seems to control just enough of the brain to reanimate the host and then search for food. The virus is probably keeping itself multiplying by simulating the sensation of hunger in the host. The undead aren’t actually feeding only spreading the virus.”

“That’s one hell of an interesting theory, Denny but it still doesn’t answer my question,” I sighed.

“Well, in theory certain chemicals will react with each other which may cause an explosion,” Rosenberg said, searching the lockers. He took out a pint sized brown bottle from one locker. “Hydrogen peroxide,” he muttered then turned towards a glass fronted locker containing pharmaceutical tablets that was fixed to the wall above the counter top. “Hand me that surgical tape,” he said.

I handed him the tape and watched as he stuck two strips in an “X” shape across the glass. Rosenberg tapped the center of the tape with stainless steel pan of some sort. The glass cracked with no sound. He removed the tape and large pieces of the glass front came with it. He lifted various tablet capsules until he found what he was looking for.

“Ketamine,” he whispered. “Okay, let’s go.” Rosenberg put the pills and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide in his jacket pockets. “Let’s open the animal cages first.”

Chaos ensued when we opened the cages and let the animals free from their confines. Dogs yapped at the cats and each other. The cats hissed at the dogs and leapt onto the counter tops. Some chased the birds that fluttered around the surgery ceiling. The crescendo of noise attracted the attention of the zombies outside. The undead banged on the blind covered windows.

“Ah, Christ, we may have opened a can of fucking worms here,” I said above the barking and yelping. I looked down at the big, dopey brown dog, Sherman, who sat in front of me with his paw raised. I shook his paw like a handshake and gave him some more biscuits.

“Whatever happens, Brett, we can say we gave these animals a fair chance. They wouldn’t have survived much longer shut in those cages.”

Rosenberg had a point. Whether these animals lived to fight another day or died at the hands of the undead was probably preferable than slowly starving to death confined in those cages.

The zombies outline shadows outside against the white blinds sent some of the dogs into a barking frenzy. Hackles rose on their backs as they snarled moving backward and forward towards the window.

“Remember, keep heading south towards the pier and don’t stop whatever happens. Ready?” Rosenberg asked with his hand on the turning door lock.

I nodded not knowing what the hell to expect when we opened that door.

Bright sunlight flooded the surgery when Rosenberg swung the door open. Some of the dogs, cats and birds bolted for safety, others cowered back into the corners of the veterinary surgery. I briefly heard the moans of the undead mixed with the dogs growling and barking in attack mode.

“Go, go, go,” Rosenberg screamed at me.

I ran through the doorway, straight into a zombie. Luckily for me, the walking corpse was a frail old woman who fell backwards onto the street under my impact. Rosenberg followed me out of the surgery. The scene in the street seemed surreal under a clear blue sky. Some dogs attacked the zombies, grabbing hold of what remained of their shirt sleeves and pants legs and shook them vigorously. Other dogs stood their ground and barked at the undead while others ran for their lives into the distance. Birds fluttered into the air to the relative safety of the rooftops. Cats scuttled away into the shadows. The zombies seemed momentarily confused at the tide of fleeing animals.

Rosenberg and I turned right and ran full pelt into the space left by the chaos in the street. The route back to the Esplanade was blocked by a wall of undead lurching in our direction. They obviously had heard the commotion and come to investigate. We turned left down a side street and I noticed the big brown dog, Sherman trotted along next to us. The poor boy probably wanted some human company.

We came out of the side street onto a main road and a signpost hanging over the four lanes told us we were on Battery Place. Hundreds of zombies staggered around the sidewalks and on the roadway. We momentarily stopped running.

“What are we going to do?” Rosenberg whined.

“Keep fucking going,” I said and started the sprint again.

We dodged between the grabbing undead hands, swatting away the clutching fingers attempting to pull us down. I spotted a discarded mountain bicycle lying on the ground on the corner of a side street, sign posted 1
Place. I scooped it up by the handle bars and jumped astride. I stood on the pedals, raising my backside in the air.

“Get on the back,” I yelled to Rosenberg.

Rosenberg clambered onto the saddle and held on to my waist. I hit the pedals and my feet became a blur as the crank spun round. I checked to see if Sherman was still with us and sure enough he was galloping by our side, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth and dodging between the legs of the undead. I swerved left and right avoiding the zombies lunging, snatching grasps.

“Nearly there, Denny,” I yelled. I really thought we were going to make it.

“Which pier do we need?” Rosenberg dropped a bombshell. I felt my heart sink.

“I don’t know. How many piers are there?”

“There’s a few. The map said there are piers all the way around the coastline as far as the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Oh, shit, Denny. I don’t know, I didn’t think to ask when I spoke to my Dad.” I felt our lifeline to our escape route was diminishing very quickly.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Smith drove the police cruiser back along Canal Street towards West Street, the 9A that would take them along the west side of the Manhattan coast down to Battery Park. Smith cut across the lanes and drove on the sidewalk passed the lines of stationery traffic facing them. He weaved through the sparse trees on the edge of Canal Park and left turned onto the 9A. The narrower Hudson River Greenway road ran alongside the coastline, parallel alongside their route.

Smith slowed the cruiser to a crawl and swung the wheel around the parked cars in the road, avoiding heavy clusters of zombies and dead bodies littering the street.

Batfish avoided looking out the windshield; she couldn’t bear to look into the eyes of the dead anymore. She turned on the radio and tried tuning through the channels and found some Hispanic rap channel. She picked up the police microphone and tried speaking through it. No replies emitted through the static.

“What is this shit on here?” Smith pointed to the radio.

“It’s better than listening to those wailing banshees out on the street,” Batfish replied.

Smith smiled and turned up the Latino rap. “Yeah, sing it Pedro,” he said, pumping his fist.

Eazy sucked his tooth in the back seat. “Man, it should be against the law for anyone to rap if your skin ‘aint black.”

Smith laughed again. “The brothers sure know how to spit the bars.” The moment of mirth was soon over when Smith slowed the police cruiser to a crawl. The road ahead was blocked by several vehicles. The lanes were congested in all directions, including the coastal Hudson River Greenway. “Oh, shit,” Smith spat, thumping the dash. “We’re jammed in on all ways.”

“We better get out of here and quickly,” Batfish said, nervously looking around at the approaching zombies.

Smith brought the vehicle to a halt. “Okay, everybody out.” He grabbed his bag and weapons.

The three of them jumped out the car. Eazy pumped off a few rounds at the nearest few zombies, dropping them where they stood.

“Which way?” Batfish shrieked above the noise of the shotgun.

Smith didn’t want to head left into the heart of the city. The zombies would be too great in number to battle through. Pier 25 lay to their right with a mini golf course positioned in the middle of the structure. Smith spied a small US Coast Guard boat moored alongside the pier.

“Let’s get to that boat,” he pointed to the far side of the pier. “We’ll be able to sail around to Battery Park if we can get away,” he said.

“Oh, I hate boats,” Batfish whined.

“We don’t have much choice,” Smith said then fired off a couple of rounds with the SIG pistol.

The undead grew in numbers, impelled by the noise of gun fire. Smith led the way, hurrying then stopping to release a few rounds when the zombies came too close. The three of them ran across the road and onto the gray and white tiled pier. Several zombies wandered aimlessly around the mini golf course, tripping and stumbling over the obstacles. They moaned when they saw Smith, Eazy and Batfish and headed towards them.